The Shape of a Life
by au-dela
Summary: A child refugee at Helm's Deep takes comfort in the presence of two legendary beings, and becomes entangled in their fate.  revised
1. Chapter 1

**The Shape of a Life**

_A/N: _For those of you that may recognize the title, this is a re-vamped version of a very similar story that I posted here several years ago, under the pen name, "yeah that's me." (I'm not a narcissist, I swear.) I re-read the Lord of the Rings recently, and the idea came back to me, so I spent some time thinking it over and tweaking things here and there, and now I'm trying to re-write it. All future updates and stories will be posted under this account, because, like the space-case I am, I lost track of the email address I created for my old account, and can't for the life of me figure out how to log in again. :P__

__So, without further ado...__

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><p>The creature – the man? – gleamed in the darkness as he rode into the keep on his white horse, as if somehow he had netted the light of the stars beneath his skin. His carved features were both startlingly fair and chillingly fell; his pale eyes flashed unnaturally bright in the gloom. He rode without saddle or bridle and spoke no word to his mount, which followed proudly behind the King of the Mark as if it needed no direction. There was something indefinable about him that captivated utterly, something in the refined grace of his posture or the sharp glance of his eyes, something in the strange and beautiful alienness of his face…<p>

Two eyes, a nose, a mouth. Two legs, two arms. A head of white-gold hair.

He was, and yet was not, human. But he must be, mustn't he? _For who alive had ever seen -? _

Beneath the black vault of the lowering sky, the King and his company - the strange, starlit-man among them - rode into Helm's Deep and passed out of sight around a curve in the wall. Whispers broke out among the phalanx of startled refugees who had gathered, hushed and gaping, in their wake._  
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Off to the side, a boy blinked twice, slowly, as if waking from a deep sleep, and picked himself up off the stone floor where he had sat hidden in the shadows, pillowed against several large sacks of grain. His small pale face bore the dazed look of one who has not yet shed the lingering cobwebs of a clinging dream, and his eyes stared without seeing as he shrugged his small shoulders absently, chaffing chilled hands together.

_Who alive had ever seen...?_

With alarming suddenness, a claw-like hand seized upon one of the boy's bony wrists and all at once his eyes lost their far-away look: shrinking backwards with a frightened yelp, he yanked himself free, only to find himself gaping at a brittle-looking woman with her mouth set in a stern line.

"Don't stand there idle, boy!" she snapped at him, making another grab for his wrist. He pulled away. "Make yourself useful! Go see to it that the horses are led safely into the caves, the Riders won't want to bother with that – and while you're in there fetch as much food as you can carry, bread, cheese, meat – apples if you can find them – they'll be hungry after that ride, and if the talk is right they'll need their strength before the night is over. Hurry, hurry, don't just stay here gaping at me like a halfwit!"

The boy looked at her as if bewildered by her swift speech, and then glanced around, seeming surprised to find that the expectant hush following the King's arrival had been broken but a sudden onslaught of commotion.

"Goodness, where is your head?" The woman demanded, and began herding him quickly along in the direction of the Riders. "Go on now, and mind you keep a civil tongue!"

The boy had barely enough time to gasp, "Yes'm," before she had shoved him into a throng of men and horses and scuttled off, looking harassed.

The boy did not immediately snap into action. He pivoted for a moment in place, turning in a full circle and gazing at everything around him with wide dark eyes. Everywhere men were dismounting, calling for water, or removing helmets from sweaty heads. But he was nowhere to be seen, the starlit-man - there was only the oppressive stench of unwashed bodies and sweaty horseflesh, the deep rumble of anxious voices. Other young lads darted through the crowd hither and thither, carrying flasks of water or carefully leading a skittish horse away towards the caves. Somewhere, someone was bellowing orders, and every now and then a group of riders would break off from the rest and march away to their posts, grim-faced, their hands upon the hilts of their swords.

Just men and horses, earthly beings with earthly concerns, huddling together beneath the black starless sky. No glimpse of starlight, in the heavens or in the crowd.

"Excuse me, lad." The voice came from behind. Turning, the boy found himself blinking up at a young Rider with an anxious, dirt-streaked face. "If you wouldn't mind taking my horse? I'm needed on the Wall."

"Oh, yes, lord, of course-" the boy's voice was quiet, nearly lost in the growing din. He reached out a hand for the reins.

"Thank you," the Rider said, then adding gently, "And perhaps you'd better stay in the caves once you're there, my lad."

"Why? Is there to be a battle, lord?" the boy asked, looking up at the older youth imploringly. "Is that why the King has come?

The taught expression he received in response was answer enough. The boy's mouth thinned and he seemed to shrink in upon himself slightly, his fingers closing so tightly about the horse's reins that his knuckles stood out white against his dirty skin.

"Stay in the caves," the Rider repeated. His eyes flickered to the blade strapped to the boy's small waist, gawky and almost comically overlarge on his thin frame. "Forget your sword. If all goes well, you will have no need of it."

"Yes, m'lord." The boy ducked his head respectfully, and was about to turn away when he looked back around, clearly struck by a sudden thought.

"Erkenbrand!" he cried. "Have you heard from Erkenbrand, m'lord? My father – Fastred– rides under his command, and I haven't heard… There has been no word..." he trailed off at the look on the Rider's face.

"I'm sorry," the young Rider said, real pity evident in his voice. "I do not know what has become of the Riders of the Westfold." And he laid a gentle hand on the boy's matted curls, offering him a weak smile before striding away to his post.

For a moment the boy stood still and quiet, fighting the sudden tightening of his throat and clutching at the horse's reins. Then he gathered himself together, straightened marginally, and led the animal forward, clucking quietly to it as they wove through the thinning crowd. He caught fragments of murmured conversation as he passed by... a vague impression of restless fear, hushed words about the approach of thousands... goblin-creatures and merciless Dunlendings, they would come before the night was out, and the women and children must get to the caves, they must go immediately...

The boy focused on walking, on setting one foot in front of the other. Goblins, Orcs - he hadn't thought they were real, either, had he? But now he knew better, he had learned his lesson and learned it well, and there were more coming -

So was it so foolish, really, to believe that there might be a man who shone in the absence of starlight or moonlight? To believe that, maybe, out of legend, there had come...?

He stood before the entrance to the caves. Once again he roused himself from his thoughts, and looked about at the chaos as if slightly, inexplicably surprised by it. Mothers frantically ushered their young children forward, or else clutched at their half-grown sons and and ordered elderly fathers to lay down their arms. Two soldiers stood nearby, their voices echoing incoherently above the noise as they attempted to impose some measure of order.

The boy stroked the horse's nose, and led it forward into the caves. Not far along, he was met by an old man who had been left in charge of the steeds.

"You'll find food and water over there," he said, gesturing deeper into the cavern. "They're saying it's needed up on the Wall. But it's for the soldiers, my boy, and don't try sneaking any for yourself if you've any honor at all!"

The boy frowned indignantly. "I wouldn't!" he said, clearly affronted. "I'm no thief!"

"I meant no offense, to be sure, but one can never be certain with hungry young boys. On you go, don't scowl so! There are errands to be run."

And so on he went, a lonely figure through the clumps of huddled families. He was given a basket heavily laden with food, and sent trotting back off through the incoming hordes until he re-emerged from the caves and found himself once again among the somber-faced Riders of the Mark.

He wandered around for a few minutes, neglecting his duties, looking from left to right and back again but finding no sign of the man with the starlight in his skin, or indeed any indication that he existed at all, outside of the boy's befuddled half-dreams.

Until, unexpectedly, a bright peal of laughter sounded from the side, shocking and wonderful amid the dour muttering of the men. The boy whipped around, nearly stumbling over his own feet, and his eyes found an unlikely pair:

There at last, climbing the stairs to the Deeping Wall, was the tall starlit-man with a quiver strapped to his back and a long slender bow held in one hand. And beside him, another figure the boy had not noticed before - shorter and broader than a man's wont, he walked with a distinctive, heavy gait and spoke in a voice that rumbled. He turned to look at the starlit-one, and the boy caught a glimpse of his face: framed by masses of thick brown hair, it was as foreign and familiar as the earth herself.

If he hadn't known, hadn't always been told... if it simply couldn't be... one might think - one might _imagine - _that they weren't human at all... that they were, the both of them, something else entirely, ancient and near-forgotten but clearly, unmistakably...

No.

For who alive had ever seen -?

They had reached the top of the stairs; they vanished from sight. The boy hesitated a moment, his heart fluttering bird-like against the slender cage of his ribs - then he followed.

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><p><em>AN: Well, there's chapter one! More to follow shortly. I hope. I have nearly the entire story outlined, but as I'm due to resume school in less than two weeks, I'm sure I'll soon find myself rather short on time. That said, I'm really hoping to actually finish this time._

_If you'd like, you are of course free to look at the previous version of this story posted under my old username. It has, in many ways, a much more emphatic beginning than this one, if somewhat melodramatic. However, keep in mind that I've changed many of the key plot points since I posted it, so it shouldn't be taken as a roadmap for this story.  
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_Anyway, please drop me a review if you enjoyed (or didn't enjoy) this first chapter! I would love to hear your feedback. :)  
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	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: Forgot to add this at the beginning of the last chapter! But it is true, alas, that the world of Middle-earth and all of it's fantastical inhabitants (with the exception of our unnamed boy) belong to Professor Tolkien. I can claim none of his brilliance._

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

The boy crept up the stairs on hesitant feet, hunched awkwardly over the basket of food clutched to his chest. As he neared the head of the stairs he laid his burden down to one side and sank slowly onto his hands and knees, eyes round as coins in his avid face. Creeping forward with his belly nearly brushing against the stones, he peeked furtively out above the topmost step; a small frightened rodent daring a glimpse at the world from the lip of its burrow.

And there – there they were. The men who were not men, the creatures out of song. They made a motley pair.

The starlit-one, still dimly gleaming, was perched upon the parapet with his back to the boy, one knee drawn up against his chest. The flickering light of a nearby torch set his pale hair afire, deepening its hue to a dull burnished gold. Below, his barrel-chested companion rested against the stone breastwork of the wall, and spoke words that the boy could not make out, though he noted the accent: the strange harshness of his consonants and the heavy timbre of his vowels.

_Sons of the earth's bone, steadfast brothers of hardy rock and deepest stone…_

The old rhymes, the half-forgotten riddles. They were meant for children; they were just fanciful tales. No one alive had ever seen them, the Other Children.

_Tall and fair and deathless and bright, born beneath the world's first starlit night…_

Unbidden, the tune arose in his throat. The words passed over the boy's lips as barely more than a whisper, the merest shiver of sound. But it was enough. The starlit-man straightened and turned slightly, as if he had heard. The other man-creature stopped speaking.

Paralyzed on the shadowy steps, the boy swallowed his breath.

It was difficult to tell, at this distance and in this dim light, but it seemed as though the starlit-man's eyes had found him amid the shadows and seized upon his face, barely visible above the edge of the topmost stair. But how could he have heard, how could he see...?

Then, in a sudden fluid movement that caused the boy's heart to fly throbbing into his throat, the dully glowing figure rose to its full height and leapt from the parapet, landing with startling agility halfway between the stairs and its former perch. Behind, the other man-creature straightened up and took a half-step forward, his deep-set eyes glinting warily in the torchlight.

The boy was incapable of movement: he huddled there, low against the steps, his face a blanched mask of fear, widened eyes standing out livid as coals against his pale skin.

But the starlit-man came no further. He knelt, and laid his bow down gently at his side. Then, smiling slightly, he extended a long slim hand, and beckoned.

A pause. A series of shaking, shallow breaths. Then, almost unwillingly, as if compelled by an external force, the boy rose to his feet. He met the man's gaze for a brief moment – sable eyes into keen blue-grey – and then looked down, a dull flush coloring his sallow cheeks. Picking up his basket with fingers that had gone strangely stiff, he climbed the remaining steps to the Wall, eyes lowered. He shuffled forward, twice nearly stumbling, and stopped a few feet away from the starlit figure, just out of arm's reach. There he remained, straight-backed but trembling, eyes locked upon his shoes.

"Hello, little bird," came the starlit-man's voice, low and smooth. "You seem to have fallen from your nest. Are you lost?"

But the boy's breath had fled his chest, leaving only his frantically-thudding heart. Wildly, foolishly, he shoved a shaking hand into his basket, seized a bruised apple, and thrust it out towards the starlit-man in mute appeal, eyes still locked resolutely on his leather-clad feet.

Laughing blithely, the starlit-man gently plucked the apple from the boy's hand. "Why, what's this? An apple rather than an answer? Can't the little bird sing?"

From behind, the other man-creature boomed, "He takes you for a horse, Legolas!"

The boy's flush deepened; even his forehead reddened beneath his curls. He fidgeted, toes curling within his boots. Somehow he found his voice, though when he spoke it emerged as a hoarse whisper: "No, my lord."

"No, you're not lost? Or no, I am not a horse?" The starlit-one was amused.

"You are not a horse, my lord." _You are beautiful_. "And I am not lost."

"Then have you been sent to find us, little bird?"

The boy didn't answer. He was chewing anxiously on his bottom lip, and hadn't lifted his eyes from the ground.

"You should be in the caves with your mother, my bird; you don't yet look old enough to fly. What is your name?"

"Hathas," the boy said, and the sound was half-strangled. He cleared his throat and said in a slightly clearer voice, "Son of Fastred, my lord." Wide dark eyes flicked up for the merest fraction of a second to meet the starlit-man's discomfiting gaze, before darting downwards once more to stare determinedly at the threadlike cracks splitting the stone floor.

"Hathas, son of Fastred," the starlit-one repeated slowly. He peered into the boy's face, suddenly quite intent, as if something he had caught a glimpse of something in the now-downcast eyes that intrigued him. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, and very kind. "Well met, Hathas, my little frightened bird. It is my very good honor to meet you. My name is Legolas."

There was a long pause. Hathas's eyes flitted abashedly from the chill stones beneath his feet to Legolas's gently smiling face and back again several times, unable to rest. At last he stiffened, lifting his little pointed chin with what seemed to be a great effort, and forcing his eyes to meet the bright blue-grey gaze. His narrow frame quivered slightly: he had the desperate, steely look of one about to leap from a precipice, half-expecting to fly.

"Are you an Elf?" he asked, his voice shaken but clear.

Legolas let out a startled, delighted laugh. "Yes," he said. "I am an Elf."

The boy's dirt-smudged face went slack with shock, his mouth slightly (and comically, for Legolas laughed again) open. Then the shadows of dimples appeared in his flushed cheeks as his face broke into a shy smile. Legolas smiled back, tilting his head slightly in amused contemplation.

"And is he—?" Hathas began eagerly, turning to stare with bright curiosity at the stout figure who had remained by the parapet.

"I am most certainly _not_ an Elf," the figure said gruffly, breaking his silence. "And you'd do well to remember it."

"Are you a Dwarf, then?" Hathas asked, after a small breathless pause.

In response, the figure merely turned to Legolas, unsmiling, and rumbled,"Your bird learns quickly." The Elf's merry laughter once again split the night air.

"You must forgive Gimli his gruffness," he said. "Those of his race are not best known for their manners."

"Oh, hush, you ridiculous creature. You fill his head with nonsense," the Dwarf said. Then he called out to Hathas, "Come here, my lad, and bring your basket! We've had nothing to eat since that hell-ride across the plains. You will sup with us, and I will give you an _unbiased _account of the many differences between the Dwarves and the Elves."

Hathas's flushed face dimpled once more, and he nodded, bending quickly to pick up the basket and fumbling in his haste. Legolas plucked his bow from the ground and rose to his full height, still scrutinizing the boy's face as if it somehow perplexed him - then, catching the child's hesitation, he smiled and extended his hand. Blushing brilliantly to the very tips of his ears, the boy placed his own thin and chapped fingers into the Elf's calloused palm, and allowed himself to be led away.

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><p><em>More is on the way. Thank you very much to those of you who reviewed for your kind words! The encouragement is huge motivation to keep writing, and I welcome any criticism that may help me to improve the future chapters. <em>

_Update: After some thought, I decided to remove the second half of this chapter, and I'll be re-posting a revised version as Chapter 3. Much thanks to Mornen for her thoughtful criticism, in which she pointed out that Elves value children so highly that Legolas as I had written him was acting very much out of character. Chapter 3 should be up soon!  
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	3. Chapter 3

Hi all! I'm so sorry for the months-long hiatus. I had planned to update regularly, but once school started I ended up being much busier than I had expected. As I'm due to go back in just a few days, I should tell you that I can't promise anything other than sporadic updates for now; real life takes precedence, unfortunately.

That said, I hope you enjoy the long-delayed chapter three. It was a doozy; awful case of writer's block and loads of other stuff to grapple with. Much thanks to Mornen for her advice and feedback. And of course, a million thanks to Professor Tolkien, whose genius I can never hope to replicate but whose work I will forever meddle with.

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><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

Legolas (name said like a sigh) and Gimli (spoken short and sudden) proved themselves very kind.

They rifled through the contents of the boy's basket with eager hands and bade him eat, offering him a chunk of hardening bread and several slices of thick white cheese. He shook his matted head, whispering a refusal - but the Elf, laughing at his consternation, persisted.

"Peckish, are you, my little bird? Well, you must eat if you are to sit with us, otherwise I am afraid I will have to send you on your way. I cannot sup while another goes hungry before my eyes - it makes for a very upsetting dinner."

"But I am not hungry, my lord."

"No? Then you certainly ought to be. Or do all children of Men have such hollow cheeks and brittle fingers?"

"Please, my lord."

"Please, my lord, what? Here's a please, for you: have an apple."

He would brook no refusal, though Hathas truthfully felt his stomach had somehow vanished entirely in the past several minutes, leaving only a nest of nervously fluttering insect wings that tickled the insides of his gut. At last the Dwarf - grumbling that the boy's incessant protests grated on his ears - threatened to forcibly shove the rations down his throat if he would not consent to do it himself. At this Hathas fell immediately silent and began chewing obediently. Legolas was highly amused.

"There you have it!" he cried, laughing. "The fabled courtesy of the Dwarves! And it is fable indeed."

"This one is too young for courtesy," Gimli retorted, unfazed. "And, perhaps unlike the Elves, we Dwarves do not allow our young to dictate the terms of their dinner. There's one difference for you, my lad," he said, nodding his head at the wide-eyed, full-mouthed Hathas, who was trying not to choke on his meal, "between the Elves and Dwarves."

"Another: when an Elf opens his mouth, wisdom speaks. When a Dwarf opens his, out tumbles shameless propaganda, and an ample view of his half-chewed meal."

"Shameless propaganda, you say? Legolas, do you recall who it was among our party who most often embarked on long-winded, delusory tales of the days of Elven glory, silencing even the slightest dissent with threats of violence?"

"Your dissent was poorly articulated, my friend, and history is hardly propaganda."

"On the contrary, history as you tell it is by far the worst kind."

Chewing mechanically, Hathas gaped from one to the other in hazy bemusement: the Elf, standing light upon his feet, smiling lazily and tossing an apple from hand to hand; and the Dwarf, sturdy and irascible in his seat beside the boy, a baiting scowl upon his bearded face. Hathas swallowed his mouthful and spoke up in a voice that was a shade too high:

"I would like to hear some history."

Two pairs of eyes shifted to fix intently upon his face: one set hawkish and keen blue-grey, the other liquid, deep-set, and dark. The boy, suddenly seized by a fit of foolish nerves, twitched and then wrinkled his nose.

"If you please, my lords," he added, wrinkling it again.

The Elf burst out laughing (as he seemed wont to do), his gaze still locked unnervingly upon the boy's now-flushing and un-scrunched face as if he had never seen anything quite so alternately intriguing and amusing ("Perhaps more a rabbit than a bird," he commented, eyes dancing). Gimli, though, clapped a hand to the boy's narrow shoulder, causing him to lurch gracelessly.

"I will give you a history, my little lad," he said. "One grander than anything you have ever heard before, I imagine. Now listen: it begins with a Dragon."

And as Hathas straightened, staring, he began to speak.

Legolas fell curiously silent and leaped once more onto the parapet, where he perched, tall against the unbroken sky, with one booted foot hanging down by Hathas's head. (It smelled, the boy noted, of horse-sweat, leather, and pine.) Hathas himself let his hands fall idle into his lap, still clutching his hunk of stale bread, but Gimli did not rebuke him for his lack of appetite.

The things he spoke of! Hathas would not have believed a single word of it, if the proof did not sit beside him, clad in glinting mail. ...A lonely mountain, a spire of stone, rising out of the earth in lands far to the North, where winters were fiercer and the howling of wolves kept children awake at night... a Dragon with fire in his breath and blackest cruelty in his lizard-eyes, coiled upon a bed of stolen treasure deep within the bowels of the earth... The whistle of an arrow on a dark night, and there, against the sky, the stricken beast falling aflame into the depths of some great and distant lake... armies marching like ants upon the slopes of the mountain... axe-wielding Dwarves swarming to its defense, Elves drawing their great bows, and goblins wailing as they died.

The boy shivered in his oversize clothing, though he did not feel cold. He could not bring his gaze away from the Dwarf's face. Owl-eyed and transported with quiet awe, he gaped through the thickening darkness at the creature beside him: at the cragged and weathered features, rough beneath the braided beard; at the glitter of the deep-set eyes, dark as tunnels, but not as remote; at the surprising flash of white teeth, bared in a gentle smile. The heavy boom of his voice, like an thunderclap echoing deep within his burly chest, and his hearty robust laugh, bursting forth when he caught sight of his audience's slack-jawed face – so, this, then, was what a Dwarf was like. He might have been hewn from living stone: a compact, iron-fisted bulk with a kindly, strong-jawed face.

And he spoke this word: _E-re-bor._ Foreign syllables. There where the fires of Dwarven forges still burned with the fervor of ages past. Hathas mouthed the name silently, feeling its strangeness on his tongue.

After some time the low rumbling voice trailed off with a sigh:

"It is ours now, as it should be, and we guard it against the rising shadows to the south. But I have had no tidings of my home for many months, and I long to return."

"I would too," said Hathas earnestly, clasping his hands together between his crossed legs. His eyes were still fixed, enthralled, upon Gimli's face; and, noticing this, the Dwarf smiled at him.

"Perhaps you will be free to travel North someday, if all goes well. And perhaps, if all goes well, I may await you there to welcome you into our halls."

"I would like that very much," Hathas whispered, cheeks glowing with pleasure. "Thank you, my lord."

"The honor is entirely mine, my lad." And, smile falling from his face, the Dwarf turned to glare up at the tall figure upon the parapet, which stared impassively back down at him, fingering the slender outline of its bow. "You see, Legolas? When it is merited, the Dwarves are gracious."

"Yes, Gimli, I see. How very rude of me to have doubted you," the Elf drawled with affected compliance. "But now you have finished furnishing his imagination with tales of Dwarven valor, might the poor bird grant us with a tale of his own?"

The boy was taken aback by this. He twisted in his seat, craning his neck to meet the Elf's inquiring gaze. "My lord?"

"You're quite an astute little Man! You knew me for an Elf, and Gimli for a Dwarf. How so, if not through stories and song? For I deem you have not seen our like before."

"No, my lord," said Hathas quietly. "I have not." He fell silent, heart beating lightly, nervously, against the hollow at the base of his throat. He raised a hand to his collar, feeling the protruding bone.

"Well then, we must have featured rather prominently in your lullabies," Legolas smiled.

"Yes, there were rhymes."

"Oh?" Legolas leaned forward, resting his chin lightly upon one knee.

"And my mother told us stories," Hathas continued, though now the palms of his hands were sweating; he could hear her voice, quiet and distant, in his head. "My sister and I."

"If you would humor us by telling one, I would consider it an honor," said Legolas kindly. But Hathas, uncertain and rather light-headed, glanced at Gimli.

"No need to look so frightened," the Dwarf told him, half-laughing. "It is no great matter if you wish to remain silent. But I would be pleased to hear one of your stories, my lad, if you would consent to tell it."

The boy managed a smile, swallowing against the sudden tightening of his throat. He continued to rub the nob of his collarbone, eyes focused upon his knees. He wet his lips.

"Haleth's favorite," he began, voice cracking on her name. Then he cleared his throat, and continued as if reciting from a book.

"Long, long ago, in a magic wood in a forgotten land, there lived a maiden Elven-fair. Her hair was black as night, her skin lily-white, and there was starlight in her gaze. Her voice was as a chorus of nightingales, singing in clear air.

"The Elf maid's father was king of the wood, and he loved her more than all the gold, rubies, or emeralds in the world, but he could not keep her to himself. For she loved the woods and she loved the stars, and she loved to sing and dance free beneath the sky, and one day, a mortal Man took her by surprise as she frolicked beneath the trees.

"At first she fled from him; but, entranced by her loveliness, he followed - until at last after many nights he caught her by the hand, and she looked into his face. Then she smiled, for she knew she loved him, and he smiled in return. They spoke no words, but words were not needed. There had never been and never would be again a love like theirs.

"But when the Man went to the Wood-King's halls to ask for his daughter's hand, he would not be sundered from her, and he set her suitor an impossible task: to travel beyond the Black Mountains and steal a magic jewel from the evil sorcerer who lived there. The Elf princess begged her father to change her mind, but he refused, and so the Mortal man set forth, driven by desire. The princess was forced to stay behind – but when she could bear waiting no longer, she broke free of her captivity, and pursued her love, and together they crossed into the Black lands and snatched the jewel from the dark sorcerer's crown, and they returned to the King, who at last understood the strength of their love for each other and gave them leave to wed.

"And so they lived in peace and in happiness ever afterwards, until the end of their days."

Clearing his throat again, Hathas fell silent. He chanced a quick glance up at his companions, noted their stoic faces, and then looked back down, plucking distractedly at the end of the twine wrapped around his forearm, binding his over-long sleeve to his wrist.

"What a lovely story," Legolas said at last, softly from above. "And how well you tell it."

"Thank you, my lord."

"You heard it from your mother?"

Bile in his throat; he swallowed it away. "Yes, lord."

"Hm."

"You know, lad," began Gimli. "I believe the Elves also have a version of this story. Perhaps if you ask politely, Legolas will sing it for you."

Taken by surprise, Hathas glanced up, torchlight dancing faintly in the wide orbs of his eyes. Gimli smiled at him.

"It is not often I request that an Elven song," the Dwarf said conspiratorially. "But between you and me, this one is well worth hearing."

Hathas blinked curiously at him, head cocked; then stared up at Legolas, who smiled widely, chin still resting upon his knee.

"Soothly?" the boy asked quietly. "It _is_ an Elvish story, my lord? It is real?"

"Soothly," Legolas affirmed, eyes dancing with repressed mirth. "Well-loved and very, very old. But the tale we remember is darker, and has no such tidy ending."

"Please, my lord," Hathas ventured, nervously kneading the leather of his jerkin between his palms, "will you sing it for me? Please, my lord. I have never heard an Elf sing and I would so like to! If you please, lord."

The previously contained laughter burst forth, light and unapologetic in the dour air, and the Elf straightened up, smiling warmly down at the wide-eyed young boy as he rolled back his shoulders.

"So many pleases," he commented. "Yes, little bird, I will sing for you, a small part of the tale. We call it the Lay of Leithian. "

Then he began, low and smooth, and Hathas rose onto his knees with a gentle gasp at the sound of the Elf's voice, clasping his hands beneath his pointed chin. The song was quiet: a soft shivering melody that sent a gently stabbing tingle crawling slowly up the boy's rigid spine and into the base of his cranium where it hummed, harp-like, in the hollow places of his skull. The words were utterly foreign to him, ancient liquid syllables tumbling like water from the Elf's tongue, but they resonated in the marrow of his bones and set his heart afire. He _knew_ them, though he did not understand. Distantly he felt his mouth open, cupping a pocket of chilly air, as if to snag the heavy music in his throat; he felt he could taste it.

A chill mist descended, and men carrying spears and swords tramped frequently past, grim-faced. The sky remained impassive, unbroken by starlight. And after some time Legolas's haunting voice faded into pressing silence. Hathas blinked rapidly, as one released from a trance, and found himself kneeling as if in prayer, gazing spellbound up at the dim glimmer of the bright-eyed figure on the parapet. Cheeks warming with the heat of an abashed blush, he sank back down, pressed his back to the wall, and stared at his shoes.

"Thank you," he mumbled, bashfully reverent. "That was lovely."

Gimli chuckled at his flushing, downcast face, at his dark eyes filled with awed and unshed tears. "Shame, Legolas! You've stricken him dumb." To Hathas he said, "Still so shy, my little lad? Well, we take no offense. I suppose to one so young we must be surpassing strange."

"Not strange," the boy whispered, barely a sound at all. He coughed slightly, and then spoke in a clearer voice: "_Glorious_."

Blithe laughter from above mingled with a great booming bark of a laugh from the Dwarf. Hathas, cheeks aflame, frowned up at them earnestly.

"But you are, my lords," he insisted over their chuckles. "You are glorious to me!"

"Thank you, dear lad," Gimli said gruffly, sobering himself at the boy's distress. "Thank you indeed."

"'Welcome," Hathas mumbled.

"Come now," the Dwarf said kindly. "The great loveliness of human children lies in their cheer, so chin up, and smile if you can. There is no need to shy away from us. We are less different, and perhaps less glorious, than you might imagine."

Hathas's mouth twitched into a small, close-lipped smile, his cheeks dimpling. As Gimli grinned back at him, he leaned forward to rest his head against his knees, smile broadening to reveal small, even teeth.

"That's better," the Dwarf rumbled. "Much better."

"Do you know many human children, my lord?" Hathas asked. "Are they all very cheerful?"

Gimli laughed. "No, alas - I have met too few in my time," he answered. "But those I have known I have very much enjoyed, and they smiled a great deal."

"It always seemed to me," said Legolas thoughtfully from above, "that nearly as soon as I'd met a human child, he'd grown! Babe to man it what seemed no longer than a season. But then, time passes differently for us."

"Is it true, then, that the Elves are deathless?" Hathas asked, staring up at him with evident awe once again. "That you live forever?"

"How eager you are, my bird," the Elf murmured, eyes crinkled with amusement (it seemed he was amused by nearly everything, Hathas thought). "Yes - I suppose we do, or nearly so."

"How old are _you,_ my lord?"

"Ancient, by your measure," Legolas answered with a wry smile. "But very young still, for an Elf."

"But how old is that, my lord?"

"We do not count the passing years with the same precision as your kin, little bird. But, if I must venture a guess..." the low voice trailed off as he thought. "I have lived for perhaps seven and a half centuries."

"_Centuries!_" Hathas whispered through numb lips. Straitening, he half-extended his hand up towards the Elf's distant face, seized by a sudden desire to touch the starlit and ageless skin, but restrained himself and brought his fingers to his own mouth instead, repeating hoarsely: "Centuries, my lord!"

"Centuries," the Elf repeated, and laughed, merry as a child, at the boy's astonishment.

"I cannot count that high," Hathas whispered, raising his hands before his eyes as if picturing how many sets of five fingers he would have to have, to make up seven hundred and fifty years.

"There's no good reason to," said Legolas just as, in the distance, the brassy blare of a trumpet split the night. He turned his bright eyes toward the sound, smile falling from his face.

"And how old are you, my lord?" Hathas asked of Gimli, unperturbed by the sound. The Dwarf, who was gazing down the wall at where a pair of soldiers had just been joined by another, looked back around, clearly distracted.

"Pardon?"

"I wondered how old you were," the boy repeated.

"Ah," Gimli sighed, though his eyes drifted once again to the soldiers down the wall. "Well. Not nearly as old as Legolas, and correspondingly less delusional. Let's see: this is my one hundred and thirty ninth winter."

The boy's mouth formed a perfect 'o' and he stared back down at at his hands, fingers splayed. "That is very old," he said after a pause.

Gimli let out a laugh that was nearly a grumble. "Yes, to you I am sure it is," he said. His eyes turned away once more, fixing upon the group of spear-bearing men, and he sighed. "But I am afraid our time together draws nigh to its end, little lad: I see Riders gathering, and the trumpet that sounded earlier was surely calling the last of the women and children to the caves. You must go join them now, lest your mother and sister begin to worry. The midnight hour draws near, and we have kept you too long."

Hathas went suddenly very cold, as if the falling mist had been drawn abruptly beneath his skin and then invaded his veins. He drew his knees tightly up to his aching chest, hoping to warm the sharp iciness now creeping between his ribs.

"I wish to stay a while longer, if you please, my lord," he said, the ease of the previous moment falling from his face, leaving him pale and solemn.

Gimli frowned at him. "This dawn, when it comes, will be red," he said sternly. "Surely you have realized that. Battle is no place for one so young."

"It is the place for me," said Hathas hoarsely, and his eyes, catching the golden glare of the torchlight in their depths, burned like coals in his sallow face.

Legolas leaped lightly down from the parapet and knelt, brow furrowed, before his two companions. Hathas glanced briefly up into his face - so startlingly fair, so immediate and yet so distant - but quickly looked away, unable to hold the starlit gaze.

"Now it is time we turn the question upon the asker," the Elf said, laughter gone from his lilting voice. "How old are you, my little bird?"

"This will be my fourteenth spring," Hathas answered, in a voice that feigned firmness, but wavered beneath its steel. He did not dare look up.

There was a moment's startled pause. Then: "Surely not!" Legolas whispered. He reached out a gentle hand and clasped the boy's chin, tilting it upwards so that he might examine the anxious, blanched face - the dark eyes, wide and frightened as a doe's; the broad pale forehead; the small, slightly quivering mouth and the narrow pointed chin, smudged with greyish dirt. "Surely not," he repeated in consternation, frown deepening "Surely not _only _fourteen?"

"Only!" There was barely suppressed outrage in Gimli's booming voice, and Hathas flinched, one hand flying up to lightly grasp the Elf's wrist, though he made no real effort to pull the hand away. "_Only_! Legolas, if this lad is a day over ten, I'll eat my own axe."

Legolas's face registered utter bemusement, and Hathas fidgeted uncomfortably beneath his unsettling stare, fingers tightening around his wrist.

"How quickly you mortals grow," the Elf commented quietly, lightly releasing the boy's chin. Hathas immediately looked away, and gripped his knees with hands rigid as claws, noting dully their sudden numbness, their searing cold.

"How quickly!" Gimli sputtered. "He's barely begun!"

"I'm nearly fourteen," Hathas repeated, gritting his teeth. "Small for my age."

"_This_ one may not know the difference between thirteen and thirty, but I have known mortal children," Gimli growled, "and I will not allow a boy of ten or eleven winters to forfeit his life in pursuit of some misplaced dream of glory. You will go to the caves – I will take you there myself if need be."

Hathas's mouth narrowed into the thinnest of thin lines; he shook his head.

"I will not go."

Gimli made a noise somewhere between a disgusted grunt and a dangerous growl.

"You are very brave, little bird," Legolas intervened gently. "But Gimli is right; the hour is late and surely your mother and sister anxiously await your return. They will be angry with us for keeping you so long, and we must not cause them further distress. They have greater need of your courage now than we do."

_Great need of your courage..._

Hathas shook his head again, fighting the sudden awful tilting of the stones beneath his seemingly-weightless body, feeling he would tip right off the edge of the earth if it didn't steady itself – but there was a persistent, droning buzz in his ears, and frantically he shook his head again, and again, and again in an effort to rid himself of it until the whole world pitched like the deck of a ship caught in a storm and small diamond-like drops of sweat began to bead across his white forehead. The low buzzing would not cease.

"Hathas," said Gimli, after a long moment. His voice, now very gentle, echoed as if spoken into a tunnel from very far away, and dimly Hathas registered the weight of a firm hand on his shoulder. "Is your mother in the caves?"

_Blood. Blood in the straw, its bitter scent thick in the air; like smoke, like poison.  
><em>

Another desperate shake of the head. His eyes were open and he stared but did not see; there was something terrible rising from within, clawing at his throat with angry fingers, something that he did not wish to speak, or see, or hear.

"Oh, my poor bird," the Elven voice murmured, distant and thin. Calloused hands, long-fingered and kind, took the boy's own rigid paws and held them gently, soothing their tense numbness.

"And your sister?" Gimli asked, and Hathas heard the twang of dread in his distant voice; his own head thrummed dully with the same note of fear.

"Hathas tried to save her," he rasped, pulling his hands from Legolas's cradling grasp and gripping his knees tightly once more, rocking back and forth with the pitching of the earth. "Hathas told her to hide. Brave Hathas fought... brave Hathas." He gasped, shivering. He thought he might shatter. "Haleth is gone. Mother is dead. Dead, dead."

He could smell it now, the salty, tangy iron scent of blood, thick and nauseating and familiar, and he fought against the urge to retch.

The hand upon his shoulder tightened his grip, anchoring him to the ground, steady as stone. Other hands, infinitely gentle, cupped his rigid jaw, lifting his face; after a moment of blind and clutching terror he became aware that he was staring into a pair of eyes, a clear and cloudless pair of blue-grey eyes, gleaming unnaturally bright in the gloom. He focused on them, taking a long shuddering a breath.

From the side, the Dwarf spoke, and his rumbling voice was loud across the threatening buzz in the boy's ears. "You have been brave, my boy," he said. "You have been very strong."

_Brave. Hathas was brave.  
><em>

The boy took another deep breath, still gazing desperately into the piercing Elven eyes fixed upon his face.

_ And you must never, ever look away._

"Do you see me?" the Elf murmured.

"Yes, lord," the boy gasped.

"Good bird," the Elf said. "Very good." He stroked the child's damp hair away from his sweating forehead, and gently released his face. Hathas lurched, but Gimli steadied him, slipped an arm about his shivering shoulders, and drew him in against his mail-clad bulk. The world steadied itself. Soft sounds crept once more into his consciousness as the humming in his head receded: the gentle sigh of Gimli's chain-mail as he breathed steadily in and out, the tramp of distant feet upon stone, the whinny of a horse, the whisper of a faint breeze. His own breath, rattling in his throat. He swallowed to ease its passage.

Legolas crouched before him, brow still faintly furrowed. At length he glanced at Gimli, and Hathas, pillowed against the Dwarf's side, felt him sigh.

"Hathas," Gimli said, "my brave boy. You must go to the caves. I will walk with you."

"Please let me stay," Hathas whispered. His mouth felt as though it were filled with cotton. "I can fight. My father is a Rider, he taught me how... and he will come here soon with Erkenbrand and he will be saddened if I do not defend my people."

"No, Hathas," Legolas said. "He will value your life far more than your courage now. His only son... imagine, if he returns to find you gone."

"I will not be gone," Hathas insisted. "Please, lords, let me stay."

"We cannot, in good conscience," Gimli rumbled. "Think, my lad. Your father has already lost his wife, his daughter; do not deprive him also of his son. Better that you await him safely in the caves, than to look for him here upon the wall with arrows whistling about you. You must understand."

"Please," Hathas repeated imploringly. "Please, my lords. I can wield a sword. I cannot hide below and do nothing; I cannot wait. They have taken _everything_."

A long pause, and he became aware of how ridiculous it all was, his sitting there with them - two beings out of song, out of legend, who ought not to exist at all - as he begged hoarsely for the opportunity to see again those whom he had so fervently wished he would never see again.

"Hathas-" Gimli began, but Legolas held up a hand.

"Perhaps he may stay," the Elf said slowly, "if he remains beside us, and does not stray. If he promises not to leave the wall unless ordered to."

"Legolas," Gimli growled warningly. "This is _not_ a nursery."

"No. No, of course it is not. It is a battleground defended by too few men, and the caves will not keep him safe if things go ill."

Gimli exhaled heavily like an angry horse, his livid eyes locked, burning, upon Legolas's face. "He has had enough of war," the Dwarf said. "Did you see his face?

The sweat was drying on Hathas's forehead. He looked apprehensively from one to the other, breathing quickly through chapped lips.

"We have all had enough of war," said Legolas simply.

"I - " Gimli seemed at a loss for words. He shook his head in disgust, and Hathas felt the arm around him tighten, drawing him tightly in against the Dwarf's side.

"They have asked the strong lads to fight," Hathas offered quietly. "I heard the orders."

"You are not old enough," came the livid reply. "I could break you beneath one hand if I wanted to. You are a _little boy_."

"In times of war," Legolas said very softly, "boys must become men."

The Dwarf said nothing, though the rigidity of his posture spoke volumes. Legolas's keen gaze shifted to Hathas, who stared anxiously back, pale and stern-faced, frail as waif beside Gimli's bulk.

"You must remain with either Gimli or myself at all times," the Elf said quietly, and Hathas, pinned by his blue-grey gaze, could not move a muscle, could not look away. "You must not leave the wall unless you are ordered to. If Gimli or I order you to retreat to the caves you must do so immediately and without protest. If something should happen to us or if we are separated from you - if you are put in any position where you are alone and must fend for yourself, you must retreat to the caves as soon as you are able. And you must not forget for an instant that you wield your sword in the service of your King, and not for revenge. Is that all quite clear?"

"Yes, my lord," the boy breathed.

"Very well then." Legolas stared at him a moment longer, and, briefly, was visited once again by that perplexed expression - brow slightly furrowed, eyes fractionally narrowed; a momentary intensifying of his regard - and then, with a small sigh, as though whatever he was looking for had eluded him, he looked away. "Gimli? he asked.

The Dwarf released a long sigh. He withdrew his arm from around Hathas's shoulders (the night seemed to press in heavier than before, without it) and said in a low, steely rumble, "To the armory, then. Go."

The boy leaped unsteadily to his feet, knees and heart and feet and lungs all working frantically to regain their normal functionality, and with a last uncertain glance backward at his two impossible guardians (one still lit by the starlight that wasn't there, lowered lids veiling his dizzying eyes; the other a nest of chain mail and tangled beard, two points of fire glaring out from beneath his lowered brow) he ran off to don the gear of war.

* * *

><p>There you are! Next chapter should be much shorter so I <em>hope <em>I'll be able to post it relatively soon. In the meantime, reviews are very much appreciated.


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